'Song of the Treadmill' - part fifteen!

[tabaqui]

Hello!
Thank you, everyone, for the wonderful and kind words about Haji-the-cat. They really helped. Cat was also very touched, as Haji was 'his boy', and he really felt the loss keenly those first few days. Thank you.

Our temperatures here went sixty-teens-sixty, so - March is in like a lion, i believe! Crazy stuff. Eight inches of snow down where my mom lives, but no tornadoes, yay!

Supernatural to get a fourth season - wheeeeeeeeee! :) I'm pleased.
My usual beta - Happy Birthday, darkhavens! - is off partying, so i had sweptawaybayou give this a look-see. Thank you, bay-bee! *smooch*

DH usually manages to find *something*, though, hehe. If you all see anything, please point it out to me!

*i'm a bit nervous about his chapter. not sure why, just...yeah*
*bites nails*

Enjoy!

*ETA*! Despite my atrocious wording, Snow is a *very good read-through person*! Damnit. :)

Da et atzmecha is Hebrew for 'know thyself'.





*Oh, God. I'm dying. This is what dying feels like...fuck, fuck, fuck...* Sam curled himself down over the toilet bowl and heaved, his stomach knotting and his throat burning. Nothing but bile came up, foul strands of it stringing away from his lips and he spat and spat again, trying to clear the taste out. "Ooh, God..."

"C'mon, Sammy – it's not that bad."

"It's pretty bad." Sam pushed himself away from the toilet and back into Dean's legs.

Dean untwisted his hand from Sam's hair and patted him on the shoulder. "You're not even pukin' up blood, dude. Or fish or anything – you'll be fine."

"Fish? What the - God." Sam jerked back over the bowl, mouth flooding with saliva, but he only dry-heaved, coughing. Dean shifted on the tub edge, his boot-heel knocking into it and making it sound faintly, hollow and dull like a badly-turned bell.

"I've seen some fucked up shit," Dean said, his hands in Sam's hair again – fingertips warm against the nape of Sam's neck. "I mean – there's a reason I stay the hell out of Florida."

Sam spat a couple more times and then reached up and pawed at the handle on the tank, flushing. The cloudy water swirled away and Sam closed the lid – slumped down across it, his cheek pillowed on his bicep and his legs bent, tucked up under himself. "Yeah, Florida sucks."

"Sure it does." Dean's voice was low and soothing – his thumb was rubbing over and over the ridge of Sam's spine, right where the collar of his thermal ended. It felt good.

"I hate the Recipe," Sam said.

"Sure you do."

"I hate Bobby, too. Fucker." Sam knew his voice was creeping toward petulant, but he didn't care.

"Sure, Bobby's a fucker."

Sam twisted around a little, glaring at Dean. "Dude, I'm not five."

"Oh, no, you're a big boy, Sammy," Dean leered, and Sam huffed and let his head drop back down.

"You're such a freak. You don't even have a headache."

"That's 'cause I'm a real man, little brother."

Sam hid the mile-wide grin those words caused in the crook of his elbow – listened to the click-click of claws on wood and then linoleum. Sudden weight on his thigh as Sam-dog put his paws there, his nose snuffling under Sam's arm and then into his neck, cold and damp. "Ah, Jesus –" Sam flinched away and Dean laughed softly.

"He's just makin' sure you're still breathing."

"He have a lot of practice with that?" Sam asked, pushing himself upright and dislodging the dog.

"Not so much any more."

Sam hooked an arm over Dean's leg and then hung there a moment, just breathing. He got his legs situated and levered himself upright, Dean's hand in the middle of his back to keep him from tipping over backward. Sam-dog made a little, whining bark – clearly a question – and Sam reached out and blindly patted at the smooth, silken head. "I'm good, Sammy. I'm all right." Sam-dog whuffed at him again and then trotted out of the bathroom, tail waving. Sam staggered to the sink and cranked the cold water on, blinking at himself in the mirror. "I look like a zombie."

"Yeah. But a fresh one. Not, like – one that's been shuffling around for a few weeks."

"Great, that's great." Sam bent carefully and shoved his head under the stream of water – yelped in shock. It was as cold as it could possibly be and not be frozen and it was like getting an ice-pick straight to the brain. "Jesus – fucking – C-Christ!" Water ran into his mouth and he sucked and swished and spat – finally turned his head and drank a little and then just hung there, his hair dripping and his forehead aching from the cold.

"That should do it." Dean shut the water off – dropped a towel over Sam's head and rubbed at his hair. That felt good, too. "Bobby's got his patent hangover cure all mixed up and ready to go."

"Huh?" Sam braced shaky arms on the rim of the sink and pushed himself upright, the towel falling down around his shoulders. "Did you take it?"

"You nuts?" Dean grinned at him in the mirror – triumphantly held up Sam's toothbrush and toothpaste. "I'd rather eat a live rat. C'mon – scrub those pearly whites and get your ass downstairs, there's breakfast cooking."

"How can you even think about food?" Sam squeezed some paste onto his brush and stuck the brush into his mouth – capped the tube clumsily, getting the lid cross-threaded and huffing in frustration.

"I'm not a lightweight like you. I can have me a big ole' plate of corned beef hash and gravy and eggs over easy –"

"Deean, shut up, for fuck's sake!"

"Dean! Bobby's voice bellowed from downstairs. "Get your ass in gear, boy! Stop tormenting your brother and come down here and feed your damn dog, he's drivin' me nuts!"

"On my way!" Dean yelled back, and Sam winced. "Buck up, kiddo. Got a busy day ahead of us." Dean sauntered out, grinning, and Sam threw the toothpaste down in disgust and started brushing his teeth, glaring at himself in the mirror.

He didn't actually look that bad, though. He really had looked like some kind of living dead boy the week before at Popeye's ranch, but the food and the exercise – the living he'd done, since then... Except for the tinge of hangover-green, he looked almost his old self.

Almost. Sam spit toothpaste and rinsed his mouth and the brush – wiped his face on the towel that still hung around his neck and regarded himself in the mirror. Even though he'd started growing his hair longer than Dad wanted when he was fifteen, he'd never had it this long. It curled down under his collar and almost brushed his shoulders – stuck wetly to his jaw and his throat. He scraped it back with his hands and held it, knotted in his fingers, at the back of his head. Different. New, and that felt...right. After the endless, static sameness of his time with the angel...it seemed right. He wasn't that boy anymore, anyway. Wasn't that Sam Winchester. He tipped his chin up and examined the mottled bruise he could just see, staining the edge of his collar bone. Bruise from Dean's mouth – from the long and mostly sleepless night back at the Roach Motel. Well – not everything was different. Dean was still a possessive bastard, utterly incapable of not leaving some mark behind.

And that felt better than good.


Sam declined breakfast. At least – Bobby's breakfast. He opened a can of mandarin oranges instead and ate them standing up by the kitchen sink, gaze trained on the yard and the sky beyond, mostly to avoid the disgusting spectacle of Dean sopping up runny egg yolk and chewing with his mouth open. The air was clear, the sky a vault of oceanic blue, not even one wisp of cloud to mar the high, perfect arch of it. The wind was still blowing, humming through the packed steel of the wards and occasionally an eddy of snow would curl down from the roof, dancing like thrown confetti.

Over the wind – or maybe under it – Sam could hear the purr of the fire in the stove and the sound of the dog pack eating on the porch; rattle of tin dishes and the occasional snarling bark. A moment of peace that seemed to stretch out long and easy, until Bobby set his coffee cup down with a little click and pushed back from the table.

"So, you ready to see your angel?"

"Maybe?" Sam swallowed the last bits of orange – tipped the can up and drained the juice. Stalling a little, because he didn't really want to talk about it. Which wasn't exactly normal, as Dean...could tell you.

"No 'maybe' about it. It's comin' today, so you need to get your head straight." Bobby looked back and forth between the two of them, his mouth set in a tight line.

"I'm – my head's good. I just..." Sam put the can in the sink with his fork and then leaned there, hands shoved down into his pockets. "I don't want to go....back with it. I don't want to leave."

"Nothing says you have to."

"It's an angel, Bobby! I can't exactly fight it."

Dean snorted, shoving his last forkful of hash into his mouth. He stood up, chewing, plate and cup in his hands and roughly jostled Sam putting them down into the sink – running water over them. "You think Bobby'd call anything here that he didn't have some kind of defense against?"

"Dean's right. It can come inside the wards, but it can't come into this house."

"It can't? How'd you –"

"Hush!" Bobby said, and they all froze. The pack had stopped eating – or had just gone silent – and a moment later Sam realized that the wind had fallen off. Even the popping hum of the fire seemed muffled and faint, and Bobby was pushing himself to his feet, clumsy in his haste. "Shit. Sooner than I thought. Let's go, boys."

"Wait a minute, wait –"

"You don't keep 'em waiting, you fool," Bobby snapped, and Dean gave Sam a little shove toward the door.

"Yeah, but –"

"Be right behind you, Sam. We're not letting you go out there alone." Dean stared at him, eyebrows raised.

"Fuck, okay, okay."

"Move it." Bobby swung himself down the hall – stood with his crutches against the wall, struggling into his coat. Dean snatched Sam's coat down and tossed it at him – shrugged his own leather on, checking an inside pocket and showing Sam the familiar butt of the Colt. A moment later they were all stepping out onto the front porch.

The sun seemed even brighter than before – bouncing off the wind-packed snow like daggers, stabbing straight into Sam's brain. He squinted hard, eyes watering – stepped carefully down off the porch and into the yard. The utter stillness and silence was oppressive – eerie – and Sam stopped dead when he realized he was alone. He turned to look back at Dean and Bobby, who had one crutch held out, preventing Dean from easily getting around him.

"Bobby?"

"I called it, Sam, but you're the one that's gonna have to talk to it. You made the deal."

Dean's fingers were on the aluminum of the crutch, not quite shoving. "The deal's done, Bobby – it left him here –"

"We don't know that, Dean." Bobby hadn't looked away from Sam – hadn't moved – and Sam hesitated for a long moment.

"It's okay, Dean."

"No, it's not," Dean snapped, but he didn't move, either, except to slide his hand into his coat.

"Okay, no. But...he's right. I made the deal, I have to be the one to ask. You've...you've got my back, right?"

"Damn straight."

"That's all I needed," Sam said. And then something... A sound, on the very edge of hearing. Distant and trembling and Sam turned – looked around and then up. Something in the sky, very far and pale – a mote of light. A feather, drifting down. Sam felt himself move into a stance – feet planted solidly apart, hands loose and ready at his sides. Instinct for fight, because flight wasn't an option. The mote fell slowly closer – grew brighter.

Grew louder, a rushing, rustling noise that tore the muffled silence to shreds. *Eight miles high and falling fast...* Sam thought, watching it. Blinking and then squinting as the mote expanded to a point of fiery light – to a candle, a spotlight, a sun.

A roaring howl like every wind had been let loose from every quarter. Light that burned his eyes and then his brain, his nerves and Sam felt dimly that he'd fallen to his knees – that he was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. Couldn't see the snow or the ward-wall or the sky, just...

Light, moving, rushing – a hundred-thousand dove's wings, their tips dipped in ice, in silver, in fire, in blood and in ash. A thousand-thousand eyes that could see every molecule of his body – ten-hundred mouths that were whispering, screaming, shrieking his name. Blast-furnace heat that boiled the air – pressure of planets and galaxies and his bones were creaking – shattering – his blood was bubbling away, his skin split and shriveling and he was dead, nothing, please, please, stop....



Sam lifted his head, panting. The snow was gone from within the wards, and the grass. The mud that was left was steaming, furrowed like a plowed field and rapidly freezing. Something wet on his face and Sam raised a shaking hand – wiped his cheek and then stared dumbly at the streak of blood on his palm. From mouth or eyes or nose, he couldn't tell. He could hear the pings and creaks of the crushed steel wall as it cooled – settled. Could hear Bobby cursing and then there was a hand on his shoulder – fingers on his temples, Dean's thumbs on his cheeks, wiping under his eyes.

*Fell and it hurt and I wasn't gonna cry but I did, Dean says m'not a crybaby...* Sam blinked and put his own hands up – gripped the scarred leather of Dean's coat. Dean had a smear of blood under his nose – a burst capillary in his left eye and his lips were moving, he was –

"...okay? Sam?"

"Y-yeah...yeah, I'm...good."

"C'mon –" Dean's hands slipped down to Sam's shoulders – knotted in the canvas of Sam's coat and hauled. Sam pushed, legs wobbly, but once he was up he was good, leaning into Dean's hold and taking longer, deeper breaths. Dizziness receding as his breathing evened out. "You good? Sammy?"

"I'm good. Stay here, Dean, okay?"

"Not goin' anywhere." Dean gave him a tiny shake – let go of Sam's coat and smoothed the wrinkles out. Then he stepped back – turned around and planted himself next to Sam, shoulder to shoulder.

It shot a jolt of pure energy through Sam – pure strength – and he finally let himself focus on the figure that stood about twenty feet away. The angel, in all its ragged glory. Torn jeans and worn leather jacket, broken boots. Fall of hair like a starling's wing, and its eyes... Sam flinched from them, frowning, and the angel smiled. Let something go, or maybe pulled it in and then its eyes were simply dark.

"Sam." Its voice was silken – sighing – high tones and low that sung through Sam's bones and made his ears ring a little. Dean muttered a cursed under his breath and Sam wanted to laugh, but the angel's limpid gaze held him entranced.

"I...Raziel..." Sam's voice was like sandpaper in his throat and he stopped – swallowed. Tried again. "I wanted to...I need to ask you a question."

"Of course." The angel slid forward a step or two and Sam – stepped back. He'd been away from it for only seven days but he could feel it. Feel the angel – the leashed intensity of it. Feel it: unliving, undying...immense. Crammed down into the form of a slight, dark-eyed androgyne. It was like standing under a pylon, bone-deep hum of power that rang through Sam's body and put his teeth on edge. Beside him Dean all but growled, pushing his shoulder into Sam's.

"Why did I stop? Why – this place? Why this..."

"This Dean?" Dean jumped at the sound of his name coming out of the angel's mouth – little flinch that Sam leaned into, steadying him.

"Why any of this? I thought... I had a debt to pay."

"You did. You do. But we decide how it's paid." Raziel slipped forward again and Sam braced himself against all instinct and stood still. Dean did as well, shivering, and the angel advanced like a tide, steady and overwhelming. "If we decide that it's best that you stand here, than stand you shall."

"What – am I supposed to do? There's things here...things no one can fight. I can't help, here. I can't do – anything here."

"Can't you, Samuel? It's in your blood, after all." Raziel lifted one narrow, long-fingered hand and Sam wanted to duck away, remembering that touch from before. Electric jolt – fiery ice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean's hand go up, reaching to intervene and Sam raised his own, coming between them. Stopping Dean's reach, his gaze on the angel.

*In my blood...tainted blood...nothing good...* "Tell me what I can do. Tell me how to – to fight those things. Those demons. Tell me why you don't."

"Not tainted, Sam," the angel said, and finished its motion – touched its fingertips to Sam's forehead. Sam felt them, three distinct points of heatcoldsharp. "Da et atzmecha," the angel whispered and Sam...did.

It unfolded in him like wings. Like the petals of a flower – like a bullet, crazing apart as it spiraled through his flesh. Knowledge expanding with the force of a nova, whiting out sight, feeling, thought. Power was there, unimaginable. The earth under his feet layered like a book, each page one hundred years of history – of life. The magic of the ward was a tangible thing, pulsing against his skin. Dean was, tight-coiled pillar of heat and light and bloodsmokesteel. A holy blade, sheathed in flesh and Sam knew he could wield him. Knew he could lift his hand and harrow the earth to its core.

"No! No, no, no –" Sam wrenched away – broke the connection and found himself on his knees again, Dean beside him in the mud. Dean's arm around his shoulders, his palm flat to Sam's chest, right over the insane knocking of his heart. The power snapped off like a light, almost painful, and Sam dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. *In my blood.* "I won't...use that. I won't. What he did –"

"Sam." The angel's hand cupped his chin – lifted it – and this time the touch was like a sunbeam. Like the gentlest of spring airs, kissing. "What are demons but fallen angels? Divinity is not a cloak, to be put off at will." The angel's eyes were shifting – sliding. Silver-storm-grey breaking and curling across the fragile blue. "You only touch the Eternal that exists in all mankind."

"Get away from him, right now." Sam jerked out of the angel's touch and saw that Dean had the Colt out and up, trained on the angel. The narrow barrel wavered, Dean's whole arm shaking – his face pale and his eyes wide and shocked and dark. "If the demons are just...fucked up angels and this kills them...it'll kill you, too." Dean's voice was thick with something – blood, fear, anger – and Sam swayed under his arm, panic sending a fresh burst of adrenalin through him. Heart beating too hard, lungs huffing air in and out too fast to get half as much oxygen as he needed.

"D-Dean –"

"Get away from him. You can't have him."

"Peace, beloved..." The angel's hand moved too fast for them to see – to stop – and its fingers brushed Dean's cheek, light and quick. Dean blinked, gasping and then his arm wavered aside. Fell, as if the Colt were suddenly too heavy and Dean just knelt there, looking bewildered and God...so young.

Sam curled his fingers into Dean's shirts, holding on. Anger pushing out panic – fighting the fear. "Leave him alone."

"You were born with the power, Sam. You all are. Azazel only gave you the key to unlock it. Gave it without consent." Raziel crouched down, suddenly, level with them. "But you use it – or do not use it – with the full knowledge of what you are. Who you are."

"I'm not...them. One of them, I'm not –"

"You are a child of man. And as such, you have all of heaven and hell within you. Every grace – every vice. All of it in the palm of your hand." The angel reached out and lifted Sam's hand away from Dean, turning it. Stroking its cool fingers over Sam's knuckles and Sam shivered. Dean's arm tightened around his shoulder and Sam pushed into the touch. "And here...here where the veils are so thin – you can use that power as it was meant to be used. You can close your fist and crush the earth...or you can open your hand and give."

Sam looked up at the angel. At Raziel, who guarded the Tree of Life. Who, said the stories, stood atop Mount Sinai at every dawn, proclaiming to all mankind the fifteen-hundred keys to the mysteries of the world. And Sam could feel them. He could hear them, somehow, a whispering all through his heart. So many secrets...so much power. "How – how do I...what if I –?"

"Fall?" The angel lifted one long eyebrow – uncurled Sam's fist and laid his hand flat to Dean's chest. "You have your sword, warrior. Trust it."

Sam could feel Dean's heart beating under his palm. Could feel the beats throb upward through his arm – pound through his body. Solid – certain – steady. Bloodsmokesteel but also love, and courage. "I do. I trust him."

"Of course you do." Raziel stood, liquid unfolding, and stepped away. Seemed to shimmer, solid form wisping at the edges, becoming insubstantial between one breath and the next.

"Wait! How come I can – why couldn't I do this before? Why now?"

The angel smiled, sunlight on ice, shivering apart into a million, fluttering fragments. Receding and fading and flying away all at once. "Because you asked."


Part sixteen.